


Castronova Incognito

by BetterBeMeta



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Comedy of Errors, EVERYTHING GOES WRONG, Grimdark, Mass Death, Mercenaries, Rogue Trader - Freeform, Shenanigans, cameo: Sisters of Battle and the Inquisition, dark heresy style mortality, dead fish comedy, excessive splatter, made-up animals - Freeform, teatime, wacky disguises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18674380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetterBeMeta/pseuds/BetterBeMeta
Summary: After an exceptionally unwise deal on the hive world of Ave Entura, Amadeus Xavier Castronova must personally supervise the security of his uncle, Lord Captain Roderick Meren Castronova in a half-baked scheme to undo the trade of a potentially devastating life form. Unfortunately, the former customer knows the Lord Captain's face, and his business, so rather than being honest the obvious conclusion is to hire mercenaries and don flimsy disguises.





	Castronova Incognito

**Author's Note:**

> Aside from my first attempt at slipping into the 40k fandom, this is a story based on the RP blog of a good friend of mine, https://asklordcaptaincastronova.tumblr.com. Some of the bit characters and denizens of his stories are based on people he knows and has met, and this one-shot is my way of both granting further blessing to use 'my' cameo, and to reward his hard work with a story of how these characters met.
> 
> It works as a standalone rogue trader story though.

"By the Emperor's teeth, you must trust me! You cannot be heard to speak in this entire affair. I do not want the riff-raff, or Attonais, to learn your face, or your voice."

At the moment, a young Amadeus Xavier Castronova was not exactly acting as an officer. He was nephew of his uncle Lord Roderick Meren Castronova. This was, for better or worse, a family business. The triumphs, and the mistakes, were for those of lineage to bear.

Bearing his uncle was another issue entirely. He itched his neck along the straps of the redundant ill-fitting envirofilter. They rubbed where he'd forgotten to shave. By contrast, his uncle in disguise sported both a full false beard and a braided wig that almost certainly was the tanned scalp of a failed Fenrisian neophyte. Amadeus shuddered to think of the expense of acquiring such a repulsive and useless object.

"Before I'm condemned to a vow of silence," Amadeus began, though his words came out a little like "wonk, wonk, wonk," through the filter. He lifted the apparatus somewhat. "What do you even want me to _do_?"

The private car rattled. Lord Castronova's scowl was swallowed by voluminous whiskery curls, but his offense was plain. This was the most expensive seat in the hive multirail, but still the hive multirail. "You have your eye for quality— we shan't take any of our committed crew on this venture. We are to acquire... substitutes. Besides, you should learn at my elbow more often. Correcting dire circumstances is part of our great family's tradition, you know!"

It most certainly not any Castronova tradition, and even if it had been, Roderick Meren Castronova would have been cocking it up nearly from birth.

"We are a long line of reversing improper sales of K'taghu coral," Amadeus said.

"Nonsense! We're not reimbursing Von Bexley any part of it."

Amadeus pulled the envirofilter down over his face. His bionic eye did not like that. He shuffled his priorities. His only concern was delivering himself through this, alive. And, if it came down to it, Uncle Roderick. These things were occupational hazards of a Rogue Trader.

That is, trades.

The multirail ground to a stop. Lord Castronova swayed as if space-legs meant nothing for rail-legs. The folding plasteel doors retracted, and he stumbled to one of the many scrambled streets, followed by his nephew. Their view of the Hive world Ave Entura was like many, so many that Amadeus suspected that hive builders extruded ferrocrete and escaped through The Warp to the next prospective world before it had even managed to dry. One distinction, however, was that every twenty meters out of a pot of "dirt" emerged a tall palm, festooned in weedy glimwire. Amadeus had to lean close to see, through the fogged lenses of his full mask, that the trunks were actually a textured polymer resin.

"What are you doing? Keep up, boy!"

His uncle had been trying on new names for him, or possibly trying to get into character. Whatever character that was. Amadeus turned his attention forward, mentally checked his loadout— shotgun where one could see it, laspistol where one couldn't— and hurried after his uncle. It did not take long to arrive at what was unfortunately their destination: a decrepit front with an illuminated sign, MERCS THAT WERK.

Amadeus weighed the odds of illiteracy, an inside joke, or the finest of Ork manufacture.

Lord Roderick Castronova pushed past the door, an anemic chime rattling somewhere in the deep, and strode in with total boldness. The denizens of the waiting room turned to stare, which was understandable because he was wearing slick-polished galoshes and an entire Kashmeer rug draped over his shoulders like a cape. Some of their eyes flicked over to Amadeus shortly after in pained sympathy, mistaking him for a long-suffering bodyguard.

The lonely clerk snapped an enormous bubble of sucre-gum. "How may I meet all your independently martial needs, sirs?"

Lord Castronova slammed his doughy hands on the counter in front of him. "I am Lord Captain— er," he began, and then invented a name, "Rickerode Babsoboba! And I require five of your finest mercenaries!" 

"What is your budget, L.C. Babsoboba?" asked the clerk. 

Amadeus quietly lifted his full mask. "Ten thrones," he said. 

"Five of your finest two-throne mercenaries!" amended Lord Castronova.

"Just a moment, sir. Please take a seat while we process your request," said the clerk, who pointed one long, grizzled finger towards some lopsided felt chairs across the room. Lord Castronova stomped up to one and then lowered himself into it as if it would burn him. Amadeus preferred to stand, but reseated the envirofilter over his face. It smelled like mildew in here. 

All things considered, the wait was not long. Only an hour and a half, which was lightning-fast as far as any sort of administrative processing was concerned. The Administratum could have learned a lot from Mercs That Werk. By then, the characters already waiting had been called to the back, and one had even emerged, leading a pockmarked Ogyrn. At last, the clerk called out, "Mr. Babsoboba, please proceed to the bullpen where you will be matched with eligible contractors." 

The squeaky left-side door opened on the far wall of the waiting room. Amadeus made a note that there were no obvious exits down the hall before proceeding behind his uncle. It was possible, if things went wrong, he would have to clear a path the way they had entered. At the end of a hall was a small whitewashed interior room, overlooking a larger space below. If Amadeus could see, he could count the smeared throng down there that was the stable of mercenaries. As it was, he couldn't even tell if they were presently armed.

A battered servo-skull hovered down through a port in the ceiling, carrying a roll of punch paper. An even-toned voice spoke through its onboard speaker. "We at Mercs That Werk have reviewed your needs and budget and have formulated a list of suitable talent. Please review and return your selection promptly. Selection by gesture is also acceptable, as we are observing you."

The servo skull knew what it was doing, at least, because it floated its payload down in front of Amadeus, who took the scroll, and then the tiny hole punch offered thereafter. While Amadeus began punching his choices among the list of names, the servo-skull began herding the fallen chads into a bin with a tiny onboard fan.

"That one," his uncle said, pointing wildly down into the crowd. "And that one, too."

Amadeus rolled the scroll up and handed it to the servo-skull. It vanished into the ceiling, presumably to feed whatever-was-needed in to a cogitator.

Another weak bell chimed in the deep. One of the mercenaries proceeded to the ramp up to their little room. Lord Castronova sat down in the chair provided, on the other side of the metal desk bolted to the floor. Soon the door opened, and a man with disproportionately wide shoulders, thick arms, and tiny hands squeezed through. He took the chair opposite Lord Castronova, while his nephew stood nearby. 

"And what is your name?" asked Lord Castronova.

"Ripper, sir," said Ripper.

"And what is it that you can do for me?"

"Rip stuff, and also people."

"Perfect. You've got the job," said Lord Castronova. His nephew sighed, and through the envirofilter it came out as a long "wonk..." noise. Ripper stood, shook Lord Castronova's much larger hand and left out the door on the other side. Lord Castronova wiped the germs off on his personal rug. The next mercenary had already entered the room and was about to sit down.

"Next," Lord Castronova insisted, with a disapproving eye. A well-outfitted, but aging tactical-looking gentleman shrugged and cleared out. He was followed by a woman dressed in more weapon holsters than she had piercings, which was impressive, because she had five studs on her bottom lip alone. "Next!"

The many-punctured murderess grumbled and stormed past without bothering to sit. Next came a wild-looking gentleman wearing only leather boots, tattered fatigue pants, and a headband. His bare chest, where it was not oiled, was tastefully daubed with mud.

"And what are you called?"

"Catachan Sam," said the man.

Lord Castronova squinted his puffy eyes. "And you're from Catachan."

Catachan Sam paused for a distressingly long time. He looked somewhere off to the right corner of the room. Then the left. Then at Amadeus, who he saw as an imperious armed guard.

"Yeah," said Catachan Sam.

"You're hired on. You'll get the assignment from the agency."

Catachan Sam sighed in relief, shook on the deal, and hurried out of the room. The next mercenary entered, dressed in light body armor, including a helmet. The insignia had been filed off, but Imperial Guard wargear was recognizable. It was far too pristine to have seen much use.

"Lord... Babsoboba? Honored to meet you. Xela Razasal," she said very quickly with an accent Amadeus could not place. Before her uncle even had time to speak, she immediately extended her hand. A businessman by instinct, the Lord Captain shook it automatically which left just enough confusion for her to sit down in the chair and slide a data slate forward. "I would like to review my resume with you, and explain why I am an ideal fit for your needs."

This was one of the names Amadeus had picked off the list. Her words were a canned pitch, which was disappointing. Despite the gravity she delivered it with she couldn't overcome her girlish voice.

Lord Captain Castronova skimmed the sparse resume before him in distaste before tossing it up at Amadeus. "Fully trained... two hundred shots per day? Explain what that means."

"On the firing range, sir." 

"Escort services?"

"Oh! Um, it's not what you think. I have a certification to escort cargo between hive levels."

"Forty-eight hundred total duty hours?"

"Some rounding there. Not consecutive, obviously."

"And why do you think you meet my very high standards, Razasal?" Lord Castronova inquired.

"At your price point, I represent the best value at this agency with the fewest unpredictable factors," said Razasal. Amadeus was sure by now that out of all the ridiculous figures so far, she was the one actually taking the piss. 

Amadeus clutched his uncle's shoulder.

"Fine, you've got the assignment," grumbled Lord Castronova. The young mercenary smiled in a way that seemed disappointed and shook hands one more time before departing. The next candidate came in. There were only two slots left and twelve to compete.

The man who stood before them was near-rectangular. He was a solid wall of flesh. "Name?"

The man answered, "Beef."

"How mysterious! You're hired," said Lord Captain Castronova, much to his nephew's sorrow.

\--

The last hand they hired was a Stagg Morris, a grizzled-looking goon with a beard to mirror Uncle Roderick's fake one. That had to be what sealed it. After a modicum of paperwork, Lord Castronova and his nephew departed and retired to their landed gun-cutter, the _Guppy I_. The very next day, they would have to don these disguises once more to meet their contractors, and proceed to the designated pickup to ascend to the upper hive.

Without his uncle's knowledge, Amadeus ordered the _Guppy_ move to dock closer to the address of interest. 

The light changed as they emerged from the concrete darkness into the clear-paned tip of Ave Entura's pyramid. Several of the mercenaries stared with wide eyes through the luxury car's crystalline windows, marveling at how the capstone class lived with a cyan sky overhead. On the approach to Ave Entura, its hulking mass in planetary night had been crowned by a bright eye. It shone like a beacon to voidsmen, but Amadeus thought it was a sort of an ark of its own, borne forth by an engine made of the masses below. A ship of glass, in his eyes, was much less attractive than a ship of metal.

His uncle's opinions were less predictable. There were some times he looked at the hive worlds and their peerage with a sneering distaste. Many were a nouveau elite, elevated by connections-of-connections when the planet was colonized and shipped off to play-pretend at ancestral purity. Piety and commitment to the Emperor's will were only real when it suited them.

Then there were other times, when his uncle looked at these bugs-under-glass and his eyes were just as glassy, sloshing over with greed.

The ride was only minutes and the driver, as far as Amadeus could discern, was not trying to confuse them about the route. It was not his uncle's first time at this address, but the last time he had been flown in on the customer's courtesy. God-Emperor, Amadeus prayed, let the view from the ground sink in to his brain. 

"Does every fool have his headphones?" Lord Castronova said. The mercenaries confirmed so. "Good. On my signal, you must put these on quickly. The signal shall be... Saint Francine."

Amadeus had never heard of any Saint Francine.

At last they pulled up to a silver-gilded gate, where two footman of the Bexley family first helped them out of their car and then cranked the way open by hand. The ornamental mechanism studded with tiny glass bells. Lord Castronova led the way onto the grounds' moving walkway, followed by Beef, Ripper, Razasal, Catachan Sam and Morris in loose flanking formation. Amadeus took up the rear, already exhausted over the amount of survey he had to do— and a little guilt that he was getting too used to foisting this off on someone else.

No Bexley servant indicated they should check their weapons, which troubled Amadeus. They were, as a company, armed to the teeth. Beef had arrived with a power maul that looked like stolen arbites make, Ripper with a jury-rigged chainsword and a bandoleer of grenades. Catachan Sam had three knives belted to his body and an autogun slung carelessly across his bare chest. Stagg Morris dual holstered mismatched guns of makes Amadeus didn't care to ask about. Razasal had brought an Imperial Guard standard issue lasgun, and a sword strapped to her gear harness. Not a power sword. A regular old sword.

Amadeus sighed heavily. "Wonk..."

The moving walkway brought them past manicured gardens, sprayed with a perfumed mist. Mirrors angled to catch the sun fed constant rainbows into the air. Formations of tiny glimmering creatures from a faraway world danced overhead, and every few seconds one would fly too high, and perish colliding with the electric containment field. Their bodies quietly would fall to the ground, and litter it in bright colors. When the party reached the estate's whitewashed doors and the escort handed off to an armed compound patrol, the walkway's mechanism came into view. An old man garbed in cream silk crawled forward in a chrome-plated wheel, lashed by a servant with a bejeweled switch. Amadeus's skin crawled inside his bodyglove.

"Throne, this is a lot of space we're walking through," said Ripper. Presumably he couldn't help himself.

"Express your opinion on your own time," scolded Morris. "Do you want to insult the client?"

"The man is right to say so!" interjected Lord Castronova, at a volume that made his nephew cringe. "Downright sinful, to lead me past all this!"

"I assure you, Lord Bexley does not mean any insult," said the compound guard. "Your appointment is this way, Mr. Babsoboba."

They passed through swinging doors onto a wrought iron walkway over a cavernous space, stacked high with sealed crates, cargo, and cages containing live animals. An aquarium tank dominated the far wall, swirling with oceanic wildlife in storage. Down there, right in front of the glass...

There it was. The cause of of this mess. A thorny incarnadine mass that twisted in mad whorls in every direction— coral from the ocean world of K'taghu, that Attonais Van Bexley had paid an exorbitant price for. The monstrosity was still asleep. 

Amadeus hadn't even considered it could wake up until a fragment left behind in the Wanderer's cargo hold had begun screaming. If the offload bay hadn't been void-insulated they'd all have perished to a man. As it was, thirty-five crewmen had died and fifteen servitors were spent before they could space the damn thing, along with an unfortunate shipment of malto-wine. Thankfully, they hadn't lost the wine, but someone had to go outside and catch it. By the time they'd managed that it was frozen and the casks had burst. Ruined for sale, but the shaved ice was welcome at happy hour.

Amadeus shook his head. He couldn't tune out, look suspicious, or uncomfortable. The last thing he wanted was for someone to catch on and begin to panic, and wake up a dormant bioweapon.

"In here, Babsoboba and Company," was how the armed escort left them. The conference room was right off the landing, and half the party hesitated after Lord Castronova entered and immediately sat at the opposite end of the long carved table. Three walls were encrusted with emerald moss and bubbling waterfalls. Below teemed with fish, glass staring down into the aquarium tank. The mercenaries had to be herded inside with the butt of his shotgun. With imperial sign, Amadeus instructed two each to sit on either side of Lord Castronova. Morris would stand, like himself. Beef and Ripper were hideously outsized for their chairs, and Razasal perched on hers like darling at a costume party dinner.

Lord Attonais Van Bexley himself greeted them. Amadeus almost felt insulted he was on personal guard detail, because he was forced to evaluate this man for a possible weapon threat. Picking apart the three different coats, voluminous housecloak, and slashed silk trousers made him feel uncomfortably like he was some sort of fashion arbites.

"It is my pleasure to host you personally today, Captain Babsoboba," said Van Bexley. "Please, relax. Could one of my staff interest you in a spot of tea, after your long journey?"

"Of course. You are renowned for your hospitality in all things," said Lord Castronova.

Beef raised his hand. This wasn't the proper way to ask to speak at all. He retracted it quickly and just spoke freely. "What, er, flavor is the tea?"

That was what you got for two thrones, Amadeus supposed. But an unexpected question could be critical to throw the client off balance... no matter how he hated thinking in those terms.

"Your retinue is of bold culture and taste," said Van Bexley. "The tea today is Almondey, with nibs."

"The nibs," muttered Beef.

"Nibs of what?" whispered Catachan Sam.

The tea was served, nibs and all. Of the company, Razasal sipped first. She lowered the teacup and under the guise of lifting her pinky, signed _OK_. Then the others drank. Had the mercenaries already designated a taster?

"You must tell me why such refined company travels with you in costume, so armed," said Van Bexley. A huge Amphibishark paddled beneath his feet.

Amadeus discreetly jabbed his uncle, who had begin to fixate on the mesmerizing patterns of water flowing down the walls. The old man startled alert. "Ah! You see... I am an honorable man, and it has come to my attention you are in the market to transport high-risk goods... K'taghu coral."

"I have recently acquired such coral, yes. It is destined for my exhibit on Eloria, _The Bosom of K'taghu_. It is remarkable that you've heard of this trade so quickly."

"I have my ways," said Lord Castronova. "Those ways have uncovered a plot to steal back your prize, by none other than the exalted Lord Captain Roderick Meren Castronova. Very high caliber gentleman... but reneging on a deal would be far beneath him, you see."

"I do see," said Van Bexley.

"I would transport your coral in the utmost safety... for only a small premium upfront," said Lord Castronova. "I am aware of Castronova's schedules."

Van Bexley's congenial smile stretched wide into a leering grin. "I am aware of them too," he said, and demonstrated his quick-draw technique with a laspistol. Too many things happened at once. Amadeus pushed his uncle off the chair. The lasbeam hit Morris in the face instead, vaporizing it instantly. Gun turrets swung open in each corner of the room. Beef charged over the table as if it wasn't there, swinging his power maul.

Beef missed and hit the glass floor, which was nowhere near graded for such an impact. The table, the tea, the company, and almost everything in that room plunged straight into the tank right before the ceiling-mounted autoguns could fill the room with bullets. Amadeus panicked for a moment, before the familiarity of water hit his mind. He ripped the hazy enviromask off, then kicked to the surface, treading against the weight of his equipment. Van Bexley was there, clinging for life to the moss on the walls. He was determined to scatter fire at any guest's bobbing head, should it pop up. Amadeus filled his synthetic lungs, and the oxygen recycler within, and submerged.

The world was slow below the surface now that he could see clearly. Mercenaries struggled to float. Fish swarmed around, expecting a feeding. Shadows lurked on the other side of the school. An amphibishark passed shockingly close, ripping into the remains of poor Morris. There was no way to know that the rest of the company was going to surface, or even knew how to swim. His uncle was... somewhere.

Emperor's Throne. What a failure. If this was the best he could do, then...

He heard a thumping noise. He turned around, suspended in the chaos. Razasal was slamming the glass from the inside, a pitiful attempt to break the outside wall. It was impressive that she was even trying now, whether to preserve her own life, or to save them all. She didn't have enough force, though, and lasrifles didn't fire through a stiff fog let alone submerged.

Amadeus kicked up to her and grasped her shoulder to get her attention. Her eyes were wild, she had the look of someone who'd never been tested by water before. He signed, and hoped she would understand, _MOVE CLEAR_.

She wasn't quite drowning yet, and instinct hadn't taken over. She pushed away from the glass before she succumbed to terror, trying to claw up to the surface.

Amadeus Castronova set the muzzle of his rifle flush against the glass and pulled the trigger.

The entire pane blew out. The pressure of the water inside was too much, and it poured forth all at once. Everything, and everyone, was unceremoniously dumped into the cargo area. Caged animals yelping as they were tossed about and lashed against their confines, debris colliding with every possible thing. Hundreds of fish flopped around him, squirming wherever their medium left them. Amadeus righted himself, clinging to the flooded floor by his fingers. He gasped for air, staring at the huge mass of coral serenely fording the tide. It didn't make a sound.

Five bodies surfaced as the water began to recede, spilling into the compound and the hive below. Poor Beef had sunk like a stone, and was long gone. Catachan Sam and Razasal were coughing and staggering upward already. His uncle...

"HE'S GOT A FISH ON HIM!" he heard Ripper scream. The man had impressive breath stamina.

Sure enough, his uncle was stumbling about blindly, with a wide-mouthed, round and rubbery fish swallowing his entire head.

"Don't—" Amadeus wheezed, the filters inside his body still ejecting water. "Don't worry about him. It's just a Fish-What-Engulfs-Your-Head, he'll be fine."

"HE WHAT?"

"That's what it's called! The Fish-What-Engulfs-Your-Head," Amadeus managed to yell back. "Harmless Duthovan wildlife, digests prey whole over the course of days... won't hurt him for now."

This was not a thing normal people knew, Amadeus thought. He just let it go. His uncle walked straight into a line of shipping crates and fell on his backside. The muffled cursing was eclipsed by gurgling, fleshy growls. Unfortunately, on the topic of aptly-named fish, amphibisharks were amphibious.

Amadeus ripped the soggy, heavy Kashmeer rug off his uncle's shoulders and pulled him behind the cover of the other animal cages. With luck their scent could mask human flesh. Armed guards responded to the commotion, but their screams suggested a greater threat. Soon he, his fish-brained uncle, and the three remaining mercenaries were huddling, soggy and hateful together while a captive Zrygerbeast howled pitifully at them out of reach.

Amadeus Castronova smacked the vox installed into his helmet until it worked. "It's me," he said into it. " _Guppy_ to extraction position and begin shelling my signal. Yes! I know I'm— Listen, If anything gives you trouble, mow it down."

"Is this a setup?" Ripper demanded. "Did you frakking set us up?!"

"I don't think so," said Razasal. "Lord Captain Castronova doesn't seem like the type."

Amadeus cut vox communications. "Okay. So you know. I'm going to ask what you know."

"I check my clients," Razasal admitted. "Nobody named Bastard Bobo or whatever made berth in Ave Entura, ever— _who'd be named that anyway_?"

"It wasn't my idea," Amadeus said. "What do you know about the payload?"

"Nothing. It's coral from an ocean world."

"Here is the situation," Amadeus said. "K'taghu coral screams. We did not know that when we picked it up, or when we delivered it. When it screams, psychosonic waves make people's heads explode. Psychosonic waves penetrate solid ferrocrete. They have an effective range of eight kilometers in this atmosphere."

"So that's bad," followed Ripper.

"If you hear it, you _will_  die. That is why I'm leveling this place," Amadeus said. He turned to Catachan Sam, who had been washed entirely clean of his tasteful mud. "Catachan Sam. You are an expert on not disturbing lethal wildlife. How would you pacify the coral, in the meantime?"

Catachan Sam gibbered. He was terrified.

"You're not really from Catachan, are you?"

Catachan Sam shook his head.

"Never mind, Regular Sam," Amadeus muttered as the amphibishark leaped over their cover, bullet wounds streaming with glutinous blood. Everyone juggled their weapons, Regular Sam butterfingered his knives, Amadeus fumbled with a shotgun, Ripper had to wait for his chainsword to start up, and Razasal gave up and swung her lasgun with all her might like a club. Her audacity hit the aquatic beast square on the nose, which caused it to recoil in confusion before sinking teeth into her left arm.

She screamed as it began trying to twist her flesh apart in a death roll. No amount of fire seemed to stop it, and Ripper's makeshift chainsword stalled on its slick, rubbery hide. Then, all at once, it weakened and collapsed. Whimpering, Razasal amazingly began trying to bind her own wound with a quick-release tourniquet from her harness medical kit. Sam attempted to help her, good for something at least. Even Ripper seemed to understand what had happened, but Amadeus did not.

"It bit you and died," he said, at a loss for other words.

"I'm from Kobald," Razasal stammered. "My blood is— the planet— It's all poison there."

That was a subject for another time, when a rare Ithakan Turbo-Squid wasn't growing bored sucking the juices out of the caged Zrygerbeast  and beginning to slip its barbed tentacles into their cover. It grabbed Regular Sam with a surprising speed and stealth and lifted him high into the air, where sharp-edged mouthparts began stripping the flesh from his bare chest. Another black beast surged over the breakwall, like a toothy mudskipper with a serrated beak. Amadeus chambered a new cartridge, aimed, and blew it away before bothering with an ID. Behind him, Razasal was hacking at the Turbo-Squid's tentacles with her simple sword daubed in her own toxic blood, the stim needle still hanging out of her thigh. It had almost as much effect as Ripper had with his homemade chainsword. Regular Sam somehow managed to pull the trigger on his autogun while in the throes of agony, spraying bullets everywhere.

Amadeus looked up. Attonias Van Bexley had finally crawled around the perimeter of the room and made it back onto the cast-iron walkway. He rushed to lean over the rail, aiming his laspistol.

"Amadeus!" the hive lord bellowed, and for a moment the Castronova scion feared what his uncle knew, to insist he hide his face.

That was when the first shell hit the compound. The floodwater rippled, the floor shook on the massive pylons that suspended it over the rest of the hive. Van Bexley tumbled right over the rail's edge, a straight line down and impaled his entire body on one sharp and dendrous limb of the K'taghu coral.

"SAINT FRANCINE!" Amadeus yelled.

Amadeus had chosen to wear a helmet and thick balaclava that hid a full vox and earphone suite, calibrated by the Magos on board his ancestral cruiser to emit an approximate cancel for the coral's sonic punishment. Instead, Amadeus heard a light elevator music, while the true screaming torment rattled his skeleton, buzzing in his bionic arm. The Turbo-Squid immediately fell to boneless pieces. All stranded fish flopped their last. Ripper staggered forward into Amadeus' field of vision, and managed to pull the pin out of one of his grenades with his small hands.

His head exploded right there, in a spray of brains and gelled blood. His husk flopped helplessly to the ground, live grenade splashing four feet away towards a disoriented Roderick Castronova...

... who blindly kicked it directly at the K'taghu coral.

The explosion cut the crescendo of that unnatural wail, and all went still. Amadeus stood still for a moment, unsure if it was over. He switched off the noise cancel in his ears when nothing more seemed to be dying around him. The quiet was profound, cut only by the lapping of water. No murmur of human life. No echo of footsteps, enveloping or faraway, that all Hive Worlds bore as their soul. Amadeus' own breath and synthetic heart cornered him like robbers. He shakily reactivated his vox. "Stop the barrage. It's destroyed. You don't have to break through anymore. Pick us up."

The pilot's acknowledgement was grim. What had the entire population of the upper hive perishing at once looked like, from the air?

Amadeus turned around. Razasal had obeyed his signal, the headphones had worked, and she still had them on. She was covered in what used to be Regular Sam, and too busy staring at the remaining hunk of meat to take them off. The man had struggled free of the Turbo-Squid only to be devastated by the coral's cry. Razasal set her jaw and put the cap back on the triage foam she had been about to spray over Sam's grievous wounds, when that had been practical.

Amadeus signed to her, _OK_. She removed the earpiece. A loud noise, probably the _Guppy_ , vibrated through the building.

"Help me collect the Lord Captain," Amadeus said, gesturing to his uncle. "I'll pay you. I have medicine."

Razasal nodded and cradled her injured arm. They both hobbled over to where the man had fallen spread-eagle after the grenade went off. Amadeus grabbed one side of the Fish-What-Engulfs-Your-Head, and indicated for Razasal to take the other. Together they yanked its jaws open and pulled it free of the old man, Amadeus dreading what he'd find.

His uncle's bald head was whole, fake beard even still in place, but the fish had gotten the wig. It sucked on the prize, inflating and deflating like a bellows.

"What happened, boy? Did we pull it off?" demanded the Lord Castronova, worse only for a little suffocation. His brain didn't need much oxygen these days anyway.

"It's over," Amadeus said, offering his uncle an arm before any stuck-turtle flailing happened. "We're done here."

Lord Castronova seemed to understand that he wasn't going to be conning a further deal out of the Bexleys, and went into a fit of stubborn silence. As if this was only a minor inconvenience and gore didn't splatter the entire chamber, he made a straight line up the ironwork stairs and began the laborious exit from the massive walled complex. Razasal gathered her sword and wiped it passably clean on the remains of Beef's shirttails, and began shaking her lasgun out unhappily, where it was sloshing inside the chambers. Amadeus could not see much of obvious value, but gathered up what he could, as well as what items of interest he could glean from Attonais Van Bexley's mutilated remains: data sticks, stub receipts, and marks of credit from those shredded pockets. Someone would pay for these, somewhere. They weren't doing the poor bastard any good.

"Bring the fish. Hessman will want to study its... sonic-nullifying properties."

He led his last remaining contractor and the fish she was holding in her good hand up in silence, slowly recovering the energy to speak. As they ascended and trudged back through the halls, smears of human servants covered every surface, their bodies laying where their lives had been interrupted. All had come to the same sudden end. The chrome cage was still and daubed dark with blood. Amadeus picked up the jeweled switch as if it was a piece of disgusting garbage and snapped it in two, throwing it back into the mess. They emerged between the two white columns of the portico, to see the _Guppy I_ landed with narrow leeway inside the wide palatial garden. It crushed only a few walls and a gazebo. Lord Castronova had already boarded, could be heard faintly inside yelling about the delay. 

Amadeus let Razasal stare at it for a second before requesting her inside. He understood her hesitation to board a spacecraft of a man she had previously never met, but the circumstances were exceptional. He offered her a clean towel and privacy enough to at least wipe the brains off while he fetched the onboard medic. After some fuss, Razasal was seated in the medbay, waiting for care with her arm elevated. She tossed the Fish-What-Engulfs-Your-Head, which had finally died, off to the side.

Amadeus sat with her. When the painkiller and combat stim wore off she was going to be in agony, if blood loss didn't knock her out first. There wasn't much time to settle things. 

"So how would you rate your Mercs That Werk experience?" she finally had the gall to ask.

"Excellent," Amadeus admitted. "You came to the assignment prepared. You survived. I will be transferring the full ten thrones to your agency on your payslip."

"Don't bother, they have no need," said Razasal. "Who even has mercenaries cheap as two thrones? Mercs That Werk is an Inquisition project. They know who you people really are."

Amadeus paused and thought for a second about her approach and skillset. "You're an agent, then."

"Not me. Beef was," Razasal said. "I told you, I check my clients. Half the stable is an inquisitor's personal army. The other half is temps with dirt, like me."

She grimaced, partially because the pain was beginning to return, and partially because of how he was looking at her.

"I'm not a deserter, okay? The Guard lost our papers and left my unit on the street. I'm an abhuman committing a crime every second I'm not on tour of duty."

A thundering crash echoed around the gun-cutter, impact vibrating through the void-sealed hull. They'd smashed straight up through the ceramic-glass cap of the hive. There was already so much devastation a little more didn't really matter.

"Work for me," Amadeus offered. "Your circumstances are not a problem aboard the _Azure Wanderer_. The wage will make you laugh."

She finally understood. "Wait. You're one of them. You're one of the Castronovas. You're not his gun, you're his..."

"Nephew," he replied, offering his handshake. "Lord Amadeus Xavier Castronova, Master at Arms."

She shook, as honest and true Castronova pact as any: bloody and slimy with fish goo. This time, her name was not packaged for courtesy. "Xela Razasal, at your service." Then onto practical matters. "The Inquisition is still definitely coming. How fast is your ship?"

"I wouldn't worry about it," Amadeus grumbled. The medic arrived and stepped over the dead fish in the room.

\--

Lady Inquisitor Placidia Pyke of the Ordo Hereticus beheld the carnage. One billion souls lost in an instant on one of her secured hive worlds was the transmission. She had written it off as astropath error, until she received a second call. Then a third. The reports of chaos on Ave Entura blasted in all at once. When she arrived, lawlessness reigned. The ruling caste of the hive, true to the news, had been exterminated all at once. The arbites soon fell before the sheer size of the upwardly mobile revolt, strongmen already forming rudimentary kingdoms and toppling each other by the hour. Eight billion knocked down to six billion, which soon became four billion. 

It was not usual work for the Ordo Hereticus. But this was a planet under her personal surveillance, and such disorder was heresy in its own way. No wholesome thing would emerge from the ruins. She mobilized units in two nearby systems, and one fairly-efficient purge later, the hive had been beaten into submission. There was not a whimper of resistance from the lowly billion that remained, shackled in their homes on the newly-redesignated penal world of Ave Entura.

After that debacle, it was her prerogative to investigate the epicenter of the entire affair, a walled compound untouched in the riots. In the turmoil, it had widely been believed to be cursed. A shattered pane in the hive's cap gaped overhead, belching a cloud of clean air and water vapor into the atmosphere. The grounds reeked of rotten fish.

Inquisitor Pyke was accompanied by an Astra Militarum company and a selected number of her killteam. She went nowhere on this wretched planet without three trusted Sisters of Battle: Lea, Carmine, and Gayle, as well as her footman Raoul, who could not be considered anybody's sister. "Hurry up, Raoul," she insisted.

Raoul's primary responsibilities included porting her luggage, which in this case included a custom heavy flamer, a rocket launcher, and her favorite teaset. He lugged the payload behind him and tugged at his uniform collar, which was cut a little too smartly.

They entered the compound guns-up, but soon realized there was not a living soul inside. Pyke crushed a multitude of dead butterflies underfoot, before the Guard was ordered to follow.

"Emperor's Grace, what happened here?" mumbled Sister Gayle, the youngest present. The dead were not fresh, and only added to the rotten stench, but they all had been dispatched in exactly the same way: catastrophic cranial detonation, with no evidence of struggle. The gardens were already browned and wilting. A craft had landed here and then disembarked, killing everything in its shadow.

"This is what the event must have been," said Sister Lea. "Before the evidence was buried in faithless anarchy."

They entered the hushed tomb of the marble estate. The Inquisitor turned to the seniority of the guard company three steps behind her own. "Commissar," said Pyke. "Secure the upper levels of the building. I do not think you will find anything unusual, but instruct your men not to touch anything."

"It will be done, esteemed Lady," said the Commissar, whose name was not even worth mentioning. "If I might ask, what will your movement be? I don't want... any of these fools tripping over your investigation."

His company was well-disciplined. None of them registered the insult, and to Pyke it was only foolish babble from a man who could not use his eyes.

There were crimson bootprints in the foyer travelling from the east. Someone had emerged from this slaughter alive, when the blood had been fresh.

"My ladies and I will be starting from that direction," she indicated, after the trail. "Raoul will accompany me. Now, get to it."

He saluted and the forces parted, Guardsmen up the halls to the west, her own unit to the east where city survey data indicated to be lower storage. The evidence of obscene decadence in this place mounted as they continued on. Pyke considered these animals, dead as they were, as good as excommunicated. Not one of these indulgent vermin deserved an Imperial funeral, or the notice of their kin.

"Raoul, rubber duck," she said, setting the walking pace. "Who did this compound belong to?"

This was information Inquisitor Pyke knew well, but there was a strategy at hand. One of her favorite Rituals of Inquiry was the Rubberduck Process, pioneered by Saul Peacejoy; a devout Puritan to the last, he had somehow come to believe a certain golden rubber duck contained the insight of the God-Emperor himself. While the man was quite mad, this technique nevertheless led to great success. Through repeated review of details, elegant answers often arrived as pure enlightenment.

"The Bexley Estate... er, the Bexleys. Led by patriarch Lord Attonais Von Bexley," recounted Raoul, pulling the heavy trolley with one hand and trying to juggle the case file dataslate with the other.

"What were the final actions of the Bexleys, Raoul?"

"Several investments, into gathering flora and fauna from the distant corners of the galaxy," said Raoul. "Attonais was quite the lover of nature, and hosted frequent exhibitions on a nearby pleasure planet."

"And what was the most recent investment?"

They emerged into a dark and cavernous cargo hold. The stench intensified, along with the patina of death. Sister Carmine lit a flare from her kit and threw it into the abyss. Dead animals rotted in cages, surrounded by a flood of decaying fish. Human corpses entered the mix, at least one with their head intact.

"From the hive duty log: one shipment of exotic corals, paid in full, to one Lord Captain Castronova."

"Castronova..." Pyke mused to herself. The name was known to her, praised on the lips of her former master. Lord Captain Roderick Castronova! A rival in piety to any ecclesiarch, a great donor to the holy orders of Terra, and willing to end an entire social over a clumsy pre-supp prayer.

Her retinue descended the creaking iron stairs, which were already beginning to rust. Raoul with the luggage thump-thumped down every step behind them.

Decaying on the floor, still bearing his head intact, was poor, poor Beef. Pyke had recruited him herself, and could recognize his fleshiness anywhere. Five years of loyal service was too short!

He had died without a mark on him. Salt from spilled seawater crystallized on his stretched, bloated skin. Glass shards littered the floor, glimmering in the haze of the flare.

"Whatever happened, it was more merciful than what came after," observed Sister Carmine. She carefully turned the heavy bloated corpse with one armored foot, to reveal nothing amiss. When she settled to attention again, something crunched under her footsteps. It did not sound like pieces of an aquarium wall. She bent down, but struggled to inspect the finer debris. "Ugh! Mother Superior's— it's too low and too flat for me to grasp. Madam Inquisitor, what is this?"

Pyke swept her skirts aside to squat down, and plucked the offensive scrap out from under her armored companion. It was a shard of deep red coral, about the size of her thumbnail, bleaching white. She weighed it in her hand as she stood.

A wounded psychic presence stirred inside the piece, each tiny polyp containing a fraction of an alien mind. In this state, it could do nothing more than pathetically attempt to connect with any units around it. But, should it have once been part of a much larger mass...

Pyke dropped the piece like it was acid-soaked and crushed it under the heel of her shoe. "I will alert the Ordo Xenos of what transpired here. The Bexleys were vile heretics in the bosom of my care, secretly importing impure alien life. Lord Captain Castronova exterminated the corruption of this hive, to the best of his ability. Without thanks, or hope for recognition."

She shed a single tear.

"Truly, the example of our times. We will pray for his soul, while this ugly scene burns."

Raoul helpfully handed Inquisitor Placidia Pyke the lead and nozzle of her luggage-mounted heavy flamer. The Sisters joined in with their meltaguns, until no trace of Castronova's business remained. 


End file.
